


Cycle

by Naguodog



Series: Mastermind Koumyou [2]
Category: Saiyuki (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Pedophilia, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mastermind Koumyou AU, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:01:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29381052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naguodog/pseuds/Naguodog
Summary: They exist in limbo, in a forever repeating cycle, as perhaps they were always meant to be.
Relationships: Genjo Sanzo/Ni Jianyi | Ukoku, Koumyou Sanzo/Ni Jianyi | Ukoku
Series: Mastermind Koumyou [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2158299
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	Cycle

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [halōs](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17085713) by [amadriel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amadriel/pseuds/amadriel). 



> You ever just want to explore the really fucked up shit your face’s father figure has done? Just... for funsies? Just me? Oh. Ok. Following up from last nights work, mind the tags but it’s all canon-compliant stuff, nothing new to see here.
> 
> For the quote in the middle, See Lycoris Lunaris’ comic, found here: https://the-moon-watches.tumblr.com/post/642935015342243840/

Koumyou comes to visit him almost every night. Sometimes every other night, sometimes in the daylight, but it’s regular, frequent. Enough that he never suffers long after Ukoku’s visits (if Koumyou leaves at all for them). Sometimes, when he’s hurting and angry enough, Genjo will ask himself where all this time was when Koumyou was  _ alive _ , where was this attention and care when Genjo was still Kouryuu, small and hurting and alone.

Therein, really, lies the problem. Koumyou  _ is _ alive now, has always been alive, through every trial and agony Genjo - once Kouryuu - has gone through. He was alive when Genjo was still filled with guilt over his death, when Genjo was wandering and aching. When Genjo felt the weight of his title bearing down on him, the burden beyond what any teenager should have ever been asked to bear, Koumyou had been here. He’d been  _ here _ , but never with Kouryuu.

He refuses to believe, sometimes. Refuses to think that Koumyou could have known, he  _ must _ have been gravely injured, lost track of Kouryuu while he was traveling, because surely he wouldn’t have left him alone. The man who acted as his father, as his master, loved him. He would have come to find him sooner.

In the hours he’s left with his own thoughts, a voice whispers to him that he’s known better all along. Koumyou is capable of all this, of more than this, and the man that gently runs a hand over his hair every night, humming a familiar lullaby (though Kouryuu is far into adulthood), is the same man that will grip his arm hard enough to hurt when Kouryuu fights back. That watches as Ukoku torments him, brings him to heel with a promise and a kiss over Kouryuu’s head. The same man that would leave him, a child, for days, for weeks on end with monks that hated and abused him, and then simply tell him to ignore the bullies. (It was never a fair fight, and Koumyou knew it.)

_ “So then. You failed to realize who was truly pulling the strings…. How disappointing, Kouryuu.” _

When Kouryuu was little, he would ask his master when he would be able to travel with him and his friend. He’d caught glimpses of them some nights, when they’d talk into the night and he was long supposed to have been in bed. He couldn’t say he was fond of the other priest, but they always seemed so calm together, like they were worlds above everyone else. When Kouryuu was younger, he’d decided that maybe if Koumyou trusted and liked him, Kouryuu could grow to like this stranger, too.

He understands now that the “not yet,” he always got in response wasn’t just about waiting until he was older. It was about waiting until carefully laid plans were put into place, until every last piece of the puzzle fit, and then Kouryuu could join them. He was given the scripture of a different dead man, so he could play his own role in the script. He would know when Koumyou wanted him to know, as it had always been.

Genjo wants to hate him. He wants to be angry and hurt, because Koumyou never came. Because every day Genjo struggled with his death, was shaped by his grief, molded and formed by pain and suffering that had been a fake, a lie, to teach a lesson far crueler than even he would have doled out. He wants to hate him for a childhood lost, long before his death, where his only friend and confidant would have taken him and claimed him fully, stolen his innocence, had he not belonged to someone else. They all knew about Shuuei. They knew, and still Kouryuu had to trust him. Kouryuu had to destroy him, when he thought he was the only shred, however messed up, of a life and person that had formed him.

_ Shuuei was his own doing. You know that. _

Even though Genjo wants to hate him, feels the hurt in every fiber of his being every time Koumyou comes sweeping in with the moonlight, all gentle smiles and soft hands, a faint but familiar warmth, he can’t. He dreams of screaming in Koumyou’s face every deep betrayal he’s locked inside, a lifetime of traumas and insecurities from this one man alone, and more that surface daily from his inaction, but he can’t. There’s something paralyzing, about the love that comes from Koumyou, sparing and perhaps twisted, but still so undeniable and longed for that he can’t turn it away. Koumyou is still his father. Koumyou is still his master. And Genjo - Kouryuu - is still just a boy, weak and wanting for the barest hint of comfort in a familiar hand. In a warm embrace. In the silver glimmer of moonlight.

It’s easier to hate Ukoku, to lash out and place the blame on him, scratching and clawing and kicking out just enough to sate his feelings. But only just enough. Every bruise and broken bone he gets, every choked breath, every drop of his own blood spilled in these visits, is as much catharsis as the fighting. Physical pain is a comfort, a familiar feeling he doesn’t have to think about, because there’s no deeper reason to find behind it. All it takes to heal is a salve, a bandage, the warm glow of his master’s sutra.

Neither he nor Ukoku have to think about why they fight, why they hate, because to do so would defeat the purpose. It’s easy to hate Ukoku for being obviously fake. For being obviously abrasive. Genjo makes himself to be violent, and angry, sharpening jagged edges like he’s long been accustomed to to keep people out. They don’t have to reflect on how much a mirror they seem.

Where there is light, there is darkness. Without the sun, there is no moon. Without the darkness, the moon is harder to see. In between the two extremes, the moon watches.

They exist here, in limbo, trapped in a cycle as perhaps they were always meant to be.


End file.
